


Boromir's Battle

by liars_dance



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-09
Updated: 2011-06-09
Packaged: 2017-10-20 06:49:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/209918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liars_dance/pseuds/liars_dance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boromir struggles to admit his needs and desires. Aragorn lends a hand...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boromir's Battle

"If you did not squirm so, I would be able to attend to your wound..."

"I am not squirming, ranger," Boromir growls, knowing the statement to be a lie. "And as I have already told you - it does not require your attention - 'tis but a scratch." That again was untrue - but he would rather bleed to death than have this man's hands on him - hands that made him want things he should not want - things that he had no right to want.

Aragorn smiles and weaves his hand gently under the layers of Boromir's clothing. "Let me be the judge of that," he replies and Boromir sucks in a breath as warm fingers find the edge of the wound. Strange how suddenly he could feel no pain...

"Forgive me - I did not mean to hurt," Aragorn whispers, gently parting brocade and linen until he can see the skin on Boromir's chest. Pale smooth skin with a small but jagged wound oozing blood. "And forgive me once more - but this wound is deep and it does require my attention." He stares down at the strong, proud features of the Steward's elder son. "Will you permit me to do this?"

Boromir lets go of the breath he had been holding. For a moment, pride and common sense were locked in battle, but in the end, sense prevailed. He nods and closes his eyes, no longer able to look into those extraordinary blue depths. He sighs and tries to relax, but then Aragorn speaks again and his attempts to relax are ruined.

"I need to remove some of your clothing. Will you permit me that too?"

 _Oh yes, my ranger of the north, that and so much more would I permit..._ "Yes, yes - but I can remove my own clothing - I am neither a child nor an invalid. Just do what you have to and be done with it," Boromir growls impatiently and struggles to sit up. But the sharp stab of pain that accompanies this movement makes his head swim and his vision blur. Suddenly, he felt as weak as a kitten and sweat was beading on his forehead. "I... I... I am sorry, Aragorn. I fear you will have to help me after all..."

"That was always my intention - but unlike you, _I_ did not fear it," Aragorn whispers, laying open Boromir's heavy outer coat and slipping it first from his uninjured side and then from his injured side with sure and steady hands. "I hope you have not damaged yourself further, Boromir. Now lie still. It is not weak to accept help from a friend..."

Boromir opens his eyes. "A friend," he repeats, but there is a hint of a question in his tone as he tries to focus on Aragorn's face. "Not my king?"

"No, Boromir - not your king - your friend," Aragorn replies.

For a moment, their eyes lock and Boromir feels those fingers curl round his own. The touch was warm, soothing - designed to reassure of course. But there was something else in the way that Aragorn's thumb was stroking across the inside of Boromir's wrist - something that Boromir couldn't even think of putting into words until the word was there in his head and he couldn't deny it; the touch was _sensual_. A moan escapes Boromir's throat then and he tries to pull his hand away, but he doesn't try very hard...

 _Would that I could be much more than a friend and much less than a king,_ Aragorn thinks, slowly releasing Boromir's fingers and starting to pull open the fastenings on the next layer of clothing.

__

\-- [*] -- 

"There - it is done," Aragorn murmurs as he sits back on his heels to examine his work. Boromir had made not one sound or uttered a single word as he'd cleaned and dressed the wound, not even when he had told him to drink a herbal brew he had specially prepared. But all the time, Boromir's eyes had remained closed, giving Aragorn the opportunity to study his face, the strong features, the proud chin, the full lips... Aragorn clears his throat. "Provided you take care and avoid further injury, your wound should heal without complication," he says softly, lifting his gaze from Boromir's chest to his face. "Are you comfortable?"

Boromir nods and licks his lips. The taste of the foul-tasting herbal brew the ranger had made him drink still lingered but in truth he had felt no pain since the ranger first set hands on him, even when he was cleansing the wound. And now, an extraordinary warmth suffused the area of his injury beneath the expertly applied dressing. The hands of a healer indeed... "Yes - yes, thank you," he whispers, his eyes finally meeting the deep blue of Aragorn's gaze. "It feels warm..."

Aragorn nods and smiles, his teeth flashing white in the half light and Boromir is suddenly robbed of all breath.

"Good - that is how it should be," Aragorn says softly. "The heat you feel is the herbs bringing more blood to the wound to start the process of healing. I shall stay close by, but if you should start to feel cold, you must tell me." Aragorn's hand rests on Boromir's other shoulder, squeezing gently. "Will you do that, son of Gondor?"

Boromir shivers and licks his lips again, inwardly cursing the way his body seemed to respond of its own accord to the ranger's touch. He clears his throat and shrugs off Aragorn's hand. "Yes, of course. I am not a fool, Aragorn. There is no need to watch over me as if I were some weakling child or woman..." He pulls his heavy coat over his chest, eager for his body to be hidden from the ranger's unflinching gaze even if he could not drag his eyes away from it.

"Had you uttered such words in the presence of my lady Arwen, you would have a blade at your throat at this time," Aragorn murmurs with a soft huff of laughter, before leaning close. "And have no fear, Boromir - I know you are no weakling child requiring a nursemaid. I am merely concerned about your wound. We still have a long journey ahead of us..." _By the Valar, will this man yield nothing?_

Boromir swallows and closes his eyes. He can feel his cheeks flush at Aragorn's gentle teasing, but he feels suddenly weary. Aragorn's mention of the Lady Arwen reminds Boromir of the futility of his desires and the internal struggle he experienced every time Aragorn spoke to him or touched him, was beginning to take its toll. The reason he had injured himself was because he had let his attention and gaze wander... _I am losing my reason,_ he thinks. _This cannot go on. Either I must have him or I will..._ He sighs and opens his eyes again - Aragorn had not moved. "You are right. Forgive me, Aragorn. I am grateful for your attentions but the day has been long and I am weary. I think I shall rest now..."

"Of course - I shall build up the fire and take watch close by. If you need anything, Boromir - _anything_..." Aragorn emphasises the words carefully and he can hear the huskiness in his own voice as he does so. "...I will be here." For a moment he sees an answering glint in the Steward's son's eyes and then they close again and Aragorn watches as Boromir slips into sleep. In a day or two they would have to leave Lothlorien and uncertain times lay ahead. _We are running out of time, son of Gondor; one of us must yield..._

" _Idh, mellonamin_ ," [Rest, my friend] Aragorn whispers and turns towards the fire.

\-- [*] -- 

Boromir shudders, his fingers digging into the soft earth as Aragorn's lips burn a trail of fire from the base of his throat to his navel. The ranger's mouth was like a brand, marking his skin as surely as if it were straight from the flames... All thoughts of his injury, his pride and his people were forgotten; all Boromir can feel - all he _wants_ to feel is Aragorn's mouth on his already heated skin - and his fingers as they slowly unlace his breeches and slip inside. _You are burning me,_ he screams silently inside his head, his hips surging upwards as Aragorn's fingertips tease the length of his still confined shaft. _This_ is what he has wanted. _This_ is what he has longed for since he had first set eyes on the man who was destined to be his king. No longer able to keep still or quiet, he squirms underneath the warm weight of the ranger's body, the words leaving his lips on a ragged breath. "Please, Aragorn, please..."

"Boromir." Aragorn's voice is like the touch of cool silk against his skin and only serves to make Boromir shiver more. "Boromir... I am here - you called for me. You are feverish, dreaming - let me help you..."

Confused, Boromir opens his eyes and cold reality quickly suffuses his body. A dream - it was but a dream... But there was nothing dreamlike about the way his cock was straining inside his breeches - or the way his heart was clamouring in his chest as if trying to find a way out... Nor was he imagining Aragorn's fingers stroking his neck. "What?" he asks huskily, disappointment and embarrassment combining to bring a sudden flush of heat to his face as he recalls the words he had spoken.

"You were calling me," Aragorn repeats, sliding down alongside Boromir and brushing sweat dampened hair from his forehead. "You said, 'please, Aragorn, please'... Please what, Boromir? Tell me what it is that you want." Again he strokes his fingers across the base of Boromir's throat, but the Steward's son says nothing. _If you will not yield, my fair warrior, then I must - else we shall both lose our reason..._

"Is it this?" Aragorn sighs and leans down, pressing his lips to the point where he can feel Boromir's pulse beating wildly. Boromir squirms beneath him but remains silent so with his frustration and arousal growing, Aragorn drags his mouth across Boromir's chest until he finds a nipple. He makes a growling sound and tugs the nipple between his lips, sucking on it softly, and then biting down on the hard raised flesh. Boromir groans and sucks in a breath and Aragorn's fingers slide over his belly and inside his breeches, slowly curling round Boromir's shaft. He fists the hard flesh firmly, but still not one word passes Boromir's lips.

"Speak to me, Boromir," Aragorn whispers urgently. "Tell me you want me - tell me you yield..."

Boromir's eyes fly open and even in the dying firelight, Aragorn can see the gold in the green eyes flashing up at him.

"No," Boromir gasps. "I yield to no man. Ever..."

Aragorn sighs and stills his fingers. "So, I was mistaken, son of Gondor," he says softly. "The warrior in you never rests - and the light I saw in your eyes was not for me after all..." Aragorn pulls back and starts to withdraw his hand, but Boromir grasps his wrist, holding it where it was.

"No, my lord Aragorn," Boromir whispers, "you were not mistaken. It is true that the warrior in me rarely sleeps. For too long these past years have I needed to be watchful. But any light you have seen in my eyes of late has all been for you..." He pauses. "I yield to no man... But I want you like no other. Help me - please."

Aragorn can see Boromir's battle etched in his face, in those glittering green eyes. So hard it must be for such a man to admit that he needed another... He lifts his other hand to push Boromir's hair from his face so that he might study it more closely. So very proud he was. So very beautiful... "Would it help you to know that I want _you_ like no other?" he asks softly. "Forgive me - my choice of words was a foolish one. I do not wish you to yield to _me_ , Boromir, but to your needs - your desires. I was not asking you to offer yourself in sacrifice - only for you to say that you wanted me as much as I wanted - _still_ want - you..." Aragorn smiles and this time there is no mockery in it. "So, Boromir, have you something to say?"

Boromir looks up into those clear blue eyes and knows that _this_ battle at least, was over. "Yes," he growls, need igniting once again deep in his belly - need for _this_ man. He releases his grip on Aragorn's wrist and pushes the ranger's fingers back inside his breeches where they once more wrap around his aching shaft. "Yes, my lord," he repeats. "I yield..."

\-- [END] --


End file.
